


my heart does mend

by slackeuse



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, also some domestic fluff for good measure, au where hearts physically break and must be mended by hand, body horror magical realism, so tw for self-harm and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slackeuse/pseuds/slackeuse
Summary: When Woojin finds Jihoon trying to sew together his broken heart one late night, he decides he needs to get his former childhood best friend, first boy crush, and now current roommate to fall in love with him before it's too late. For both of them.





	my heart does mend

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings:  
> \- graphic depictions of violence because of self-harm, which is at the center of the magical realism aspect of the story, so please proceed with caution  
> \- there are pretty graphic descriptions of hearts/blood

 

 

Woojin has seen approximately ten studios, five one bedroom apartments, and eleven open rooms in two or three bedroom apartments, and either they’re disgusting hole-in-the-wall cockroach dens or they’re way too small or the potential roommate(s) look like people who’d drive him to a slow death. The way things are looking, he’s expecting the same from this two bedroom twentieth floor apartment.

He does not expect Park Jihoon to be the one who opens the door. Nor does he expect him to look exactly the fucking same but like in a better way. Like he’s even  _more_  attractive. Which is no easy feat given that Park Jihoon is how he discovered he swung that way in the first place.

“No fucking way,” Jihoon says.

Woojin’s heart skips a beat, but he ignores it. “Yes fucking way,” Woojin answers, grinning. He can’t contain it. Jihoon always did this to him. He envelops Jihoon in his arms, maybe even lifts him off the ground a little, maybe even goes so far as to spin around with him. Then he hunches over just a bit more so he can nuzzle his face into Jihoon’s neck. He more than missed this—more than missed Jihoon. “This is going to be so awesome! When should I move in?”

“I—What?” Jihoon pushes back at Woojin’s shoulders a little, but Woojin only relents _a tiny bit_. “What makes you think this is even my apartment? Maybe I’m robbing it.”

“Oh, sweet. Let me help?”

“Or maybe I’m just an assistant.”

“An assistant? You? As if you’d ever work this hard for someone else. This is totally your place.” He pauses at this, because it finally hits him. Jihoon lives on the twentieth floor of one of the nicest apartment buildings in one of Seoul’s nicest neighborhoods. He finally releases Jihoon so he can take a good look around—the granite countertops, the polished wood floors, the modern luxurious furniture. “Holy fuck, Jihoon. This is your place?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and says, “Maybe I just murdered the owner.” He heads toward a room off the side of the kitchen that looks like a fucking formal dining room, and Woojin follows, whistling as he goes. This place must’ve cost a fortune.

“You know how good I am at body disposal, babe,” Woojin offers. The formal dining table has a coffee mug and a stack of at least five others (one has a staple in it so that must mean it’s been creatively lengthened) on one side. There’s a glass overturned in front of the seat to the right, a plate of cookies, and a few decanters of what must be liquor on a gold tray. The fuck is this. “But compensation means I’m living here with you.”

“Babe?” Jihoon plops into the seat at the head of the table. “Water? Rum? I’ve got chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodle, and sugar cookies, too.”

“Yes. Babe. That’s what I said.” Woojin points to the seat at his right. “Should I sit? Are you really going to make me do the interview? You know me...”

Jihoon chuckles and sits back like some rich asshole. And Woojin realises he is some rich asshole. “You did pay for the background check,” Jihoon answers. He curls his fingers around the mug, an expectant look on his face. He has Woojin’s resume on top of the stack. He continues, “Shouldn’t I do my part and actually make sure we can live together by asking you highly specific and slightly personal questions about your living habits? For my boss.”

Woojin snorts and serves himself one of every cookie as he takes a seat. “For you. Except you already know the answers anyway.” He pours himself water.

“Do I?” Jihoon asks. He raises an eyebrow. How can he still look so perfectly beautiful? His jaw seems more defined than Woojin remembers, his lips more kissable, his eyes even easier to get lost in. This feels like the first time Woojin has really seen Jihoon in five years. It’s different sitting across from Jihoon at his nice ass dining room table for a roommate interview than the scarce texts they’d been exchanging since Jihoon went off to study acting at ChungAng University and Woojin moved all the way to Los Angeles despite his shitty English to try making it as a “real” dancer. It’s different from the short coffee breaks they squeezed in once or twice when Woojin visited home for the holidays.

“It’s not like I changed after high school. Don’t you remember how clean my room was, how my mom always praised me because I did the dishes when Yerim didn’t? I’d be one hell of a roommate given how good of a friend I was. Am. How good of a friend I  _am_.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. “  _Was_? Freudian slip?”

“Are you calling me a bad friend?”

“Weren’t you calling yourself a bad friend?”

“I just meant—God, you know what I meant. We’re friends but just not—”

“—as close as we were,” Jihoon finishes for him.

There’s a finality to the end of his sentence that Woojin didn’t know what to expect. He isn’t quite sure what to say. Of course, he didn’t imagine Jihoon would be the one who was interviewing for roommates. But after he realized it was him, this was not how he thought their conversation would go. Now he’s backtracking in his mind. Jihoon hadn’t hugged him back. Jihoon had even tried to push him away. Jihoon has been attempting to, in many ways, demonstrate that Woojin doesn’t nearly know as much about him as he thinks he does. Well shit.

“Do you not want to be roommates with me?” Woojin asks, breaking off a piece of cookie to distract himself from the way his hands are starting to tremble for no reason except that he started wanting this—being Jihoon’s roommate—way too much for the brief amount of time it’s even been a possibility. “Just be honest. I won’t be mad. And it won’t really change the fact that I want to be close like we were again.”

Jihoon gives him a long look but says nothing. Then he lowers his gaze to his drink. Woojin takes this time to eat the bit of cookie. He ends up finishing the whole thing.

“Okay,” Woojin says. “I get it.” He goes to get up, but Jihoon scoffs.

“No, it’s not that,” Jihoon says finally. He grabs Woojin’s elbow and pulls him back down to his seat. “Sit down. It’s not that I don’t want to be roommates with you. It’s just that I’m not sure you should be roommates with me. Maybe I want to keep shit separate. Like friends are friends, colleagues are colleagues, roommates are roommates.”

“Except didn’t you live with Daniel hyung for a while in college? And you worked with Seongwoo hyung before and you’re still friends.”

Jihoon avoids his stare now, choosing to take another drink and to reach for a cookie himself. “Maybe I don’t want you to see this part of me or something.”

“What part of you?” Woojin puts an elbow on the table and rests his head in his palm. “The part where you’re comfortable in your pajamas and you’re pigging out on some fried chicken all by yourself? The part where you’re staying up until sunrise playing League of Legends? The part where you walk around half naked complaining about it being hot because you want to save money not turning on the A/C? Too late. Seen it already.”

Jihoon bites the inside of his cheek. That usually means he’s holding something back. What could Woojin have missed?

“Do you bring home people often or something?” Woojin guesses. “That won’t bother me.” Much, at least. “Is it because it seems like I just want to live in a nice place like this? Don’t kid yourself. I care about what the place looks like, but I’d live in a shithole if it was with you. Imagine us coming home late from our grueling jobs, cracking open some beer, sitting on your deck and watching the city lights as we complain together. This could be so awesome. I want to be your roommate. I mean your boss’s roommate. Or whoever rich asshole you killed to get this place. I don’t care. I just want to live with you. I missed you, Jihoon.”

“Okay, fine.” Jihoon finally drops the cookie he picked up earlier, though he hasn’t taken a bite still. He pulls in a long breath. “Let’s do it.”

“Fuck yes!” Woojin is on his feet in an instant. He may even be dancing. “This is going to be the best. How soon can I move in? Can I move in today?”

Jihoon blinks. “Uh, sure?”

“Come shopping with me, then.” He pulls Jihoon to his feet and starts shoving him to the front door where both their shoes were left. “I need to buy a bed and shit. And can I crash in your room until it all gets delivered? Holy shit, Jihoon. We’re roommates. This is really happening. And now I live in some bougie ass fancy apartment, too. This is fucking amazing. And also these cookies are great. Did you make them?”

“Yeah, totally made them.”

“You bought them?”

“Oh, of course. There’s a grocery store...uh...down the street somewhere.” Jihoon is grinning now, too, as he slips on his shoes alongside him. He’s probably wanted to show off his wealth to someone all along but never wanted to be rude. But they’re the same age and Jihoon has to know Woojin can only be happy for his success.

“Does the infamous most successful rookie director ever have a fucking personal chef? I should’ve known. My god, Park Jihoon. I fucking love you.”

Jihoon just smiles more. “You really do, huh.”

Woojin hugs him again just because he can. “Yeah, I do.”

And at one point, five years ago, he could’ve said it was the head-over-heels type, too. The type only time and distance could settle. The type that might even be bubble up in his chest a little now. It’s easy enough to ignore, though. For now.

 

Moving in is easy as fuck. Jihoon helps him pick out affordable furniture that’ll still match the rest of the apartment. He’s pretty sure Dispatch even follows them for a little while and they joke about it. Will they say “Top Rookie Director Park Jihoon Spotted with Top Choreographer for Idol Group Wanna One Park Woojin - MV Collaboration”? Or will it be something more like “Rookie Monsters Club: Top Rookie Director Park Jihoon Reconnects with Best Friend Top Choreographer for Idol Group Wanna One, Also Friends with Top Rookie Actor Ong Seongwoo and Top Solo Idol Kang Daniel”?

They promised to celebrate when Woojin’s final piece of his room is installed—a mirror for the barn door separating his room from his walk in closet (he will never stop thanking Jihoon for finding this wonderful, marvelous apartment and agreeing to be roommates) so he can dance in his bedroom sometimes. They crack open beers, order in three different kinds of fried chicken, and park themselves in front of Jihoon’s huge TV. Old habits die hard.

So do old feelings.

Woojin remembers when they did this back in high school. He used to watch Jihoon from the corner of his eyes just because it was hard not to watch him. He loved Jihoon’s smile, loved his pout, loved his laugh, loved the way his voice went higher when he complained, loved how he was just always fucking hungry, loved how he almost went as far as to lick his plate clean after eating, just loved him. Everything about it. So much.

A part of him believed that maybe Jihoon liked him back. Or at least a big enough part of him believed it that he agonized for months about how to confess in a way that wouldn’t jeopardize their friendship. Woojin maybe was in love with Jihoon, but he loved their friendship more than that.

He never did come up with a way to tell Jihoon how he felt. Right now, especially, he regrets not finding out what they could’ve been. They could be sharing this moment not as reunited friends but as boyfriends, as lovers, as something more than they are. He could hold Jihoon’s hand. He could pull him into his lap. He could kiss his neck, his cheeks, his lips. He could say  _I love you_  and Jihoon would know he meant it.

 

Woojin isn't sure why he wakes up in the middle of the night, but he's thirsty and he drank all the water in the glass he took with him to bed. So he gets up, takes the glass to the kitchen, fills it up. That's when he notices. There's a thin brush stroke of yellow light under Jihoon's door. The hell is he doing awake at this hour?

He crosses the living room, water in hand. He takes a sip before knocking. "Jihoon, you up?" When there's no answer, he figures Jihoon fell asleep playing some game on his laptop or phone, so he knocks again. "Jihoon? If you don't answer, I'm coming in so I can make sure you don’t roll over and break something precious to you."

The other side of the door is quiet when he knows that if Jihoon had been sleeping, he would've woken up by now. Although his threat had been empty, he's a little worried now. He reaches for the door handle.

"I'm—" Jihoon says on the other side, but his voice sounds distant, forced. "—fine."

The fuck he is. Woojin doesn't think twice about opening the goddamn door. There could be an intruder. Or maybe Jihoon is just sick and doesn't want Woojin to see, but that's not for him to decide. He won’t let Jihoon get hurt or feel like shit all on his own. That’s just not Woojin’s style.

The room is empty, though.

"Jihoon?"

From the bathroom, he all but groans, "Don't—"

The bathroom door isn't closed all the way, and it doesn't take more than a soft push for it to open with a gentle creak to a slick mess a darker shade of red than Woojin has ever seen. Blood. Everywhere. Jihoon in the middle of it. He’s in the bathtub, a knife in his hands and its sharp steel blade cutting into his chest. It makes a puckered trail of pale flesh from his collarbone to the middle of his rib cage, left side.

"I told you, don't..." Jihoon groans, and the bathroom light flashes against the sheen of sweat along his cheeks. "I can't finish with you watching, Woojin..."

Woojin has seen this before, though, so he has no words to stop Jihoon. He caught his mother mending her own heart when he was young. Her mother had just died from a car accident, and she’d told him that this was the only way to stop the hurt. Is this what Jihoon had meant? Is it this part of him that he’d wanted to keep from Woojin? He takes a step forward.

"Watch your step," Jihoon says, hoarsely. "The glass—"

When did Woojin drop the glass? Was it when he saw all the blood or was it when he saw the knife in Jihoon's chest or was it when Jihoon said his name at the end of his sentence like a prayer? All he knows is that he wants to be by Jihoon’s side, wants to know who hurt him, wants to do whatever will make Jihoon hurt less.

“I’m not leaving,” Woojin whispers, though he's not sure why. He carefully makes his way to the side of the tub, to Jihoon's side. "How could I leave you like this? Don't be fucking stupid. Someone broke your heart and I'm going to sit here while you tell me what happened and then I'm going to help you stitch it up. That's what best friends are for. I told you that there’s nothing you can do that’ll bother me. You’re stuck with me."

Jihoon closes his eyes, hisses in pain. “I know. Thank you. Really. But please.” He meets his eyes with Woojin's, but then he glances away to stare at the blood pooling in the bottom of the tub. "Let me do this alone."

"No."

"No?" This time, Jihoon holds Woojin’s gaze. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks exhausted and hurt and broken and Woojin wants to strangle whoever did this to him. "Please just leave, Woojin."

"No," he repeats. He takes a seat, cross-legged, and leans against the side of the tub. "You don't have to tell me what happened. You can do it all by yourself if you want. But I want to stay here and make sure you're okay at the end. Please."

Woojin just looks at him, searches his eyes for a few long seconds. Then he signs, leans against the side of the tub toward Woojin, lets his head fall onto Woojin’s shoulder. Woojin shivers a little, then watches as Jihoon digs his free hand into the tear into his chest. Then his knife follows it, angling metal against bone, and a dull snap followers. Jihoon groans into Woojin's neck.

Woojin clenches his fists in his lap to hide his urge to pull Jihoon closer as metallic hurt burns his throat. All he can do is put a hand on Jihoon’s head as he drops the knife into the tub’s porcelain depths and then tips his head back on Woojin’s shoulder with his eyes closed to the ceiling. Jihoon reaches into his chest. Blood drips down his arms, stains his characteristically pink pajamas. His fingers are groping, pushing, feeling around, and then they're maneuvering a beating thing between two of his ribs until there's a quivering and broken thing weeping in the space between them.

"My dad taught me," Jihoon says, voice husky low, "how to do this. My brother left for home for college when I was fourteen or so, and since my dad works so much, he was sorta devastated that it meant he’d barely get to see his first son anymore. He’d been hoping he’d choose to still live at home, I guess. He told me that sometimes love hurts you, and this is what it looks like. It's like any other time you get hurt-scrape your knee when you fall, twist your ankle when you trip-and you have to make sure to tend to it. For a scrape, you'd use a Band-Aid. For a twisted ankle, you'd wrap it. For a broken heart, you sew it up. If only it was that easy, yeah?"

Woojin’s heart tightens enough to be painful, too. He smiles, though, and reaches for the little sewing kit that Jihoon placed on the floor beside the tub. “If only. Let me thread the needle for you.” He opens it up, finds a needle and the thread, and pinches his tongue between his teeth as he passes the thread through the eye of the needle to the sound of Jihoon’s ragged breathing.

“Have you done this before?” Jihoon asks.

“Once, yeah.” Five years ago in a tiny shower in a tiny bathroom in a tiny three bedroom apartment because it was all he could afford with the money his parents set him. He doesn’t dare ask how many times Jihoon has done this as he takes the needle and begins his work with a calm hand.

“What was it like?” Jihoon starts at the top, sticking his needle into the throbbing maroon muscle on either side of the crevasse in his heart. Once again, Woojin wants nothing more than to find the asshole who did this to Jihoon’s heart.

“Painful. Messy. I thought I’d scream or cry, but I didn’t. There was just too much pain. In my toes, my fingers, my shins, my forearms, my thighs, deep in my stomach, all the way up to my spine and down my shoulders. It was like my heart decided to send its hurt everywhere else. The mending was way more painful than the breaking.”

Woojin remembers now. He’d dug the tip of a grocery store-bought kitchen knife into his breastbone where he now has a shining scar. He’d been afraid of being too loud and waking up his roommates because every little breath was an echo in that small space where he’d never felt more alone. He hadn’t wanted to bother, honestly. He was afraid if he’d mended his heart that he’d forget the love and god he’d still wanted to love Jihoon.

The rip had been small enough—right where two swirling patterns of muscle met elegant and complex—and even after placing the stitches as close together as his shaking hands could manage, he wasn’t sure he’d done well enough. He still hurt after, a little bit, but it reminded him of his first love, his first heartbreak. That little rip is where he imagines the pain in his heart is throbbing right now.

“How’d it feel afterwards?” Jihoon asks as he sews.

“Hollow. Numb.” And he’d hated it. It’d been ass if he’d shoved the largest part of his life out of his heart and he had nothing left.

Jihoon hums. Then he cuts off the excess string with his teeth. “It only lasts a little while though. For me at least. The feelings always come back somehow. I think what I like the most, though, is having my heart in my own hands, drumming my life’s song into my palms. I feel powerful. I feel like I’m in control.”

With that, Jihoon gently replaces his heart into his chest, sits straight so he can maneuver his rib back into place. Then he’s pulling his flesh back together and sewing that up, too. He has just enough thread left for it, as if he’s so well practiced he’d measured it out that way to begin with. When he’s done, he washes the blood down the drain, dark red diluted into sunset pink, cotton candy, bubblegum filth under his feet.

Woojin stands as Jihoon does, and then he reaches across the space separating them and peels off Jihoon’s nightshirt. “I’ll get you a new pair?”

Jihoon just looks at him for a long time. Then he says, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Anytime, he wants to say.  _Anything for you_ , he wants to say.

Woojin makes his way back into Jihoon’s room and he can hear Jihoon slipping out of his pajama pants, too. He returns with a clean set, even a new pair of briefs. Then he stands outside of the bathroom while he changes. He knows Jihoon wouldn’t care if he had just stood there, but Woojin for some reason doesn’t feel like he’s been invited and he’s already pushed some lines he’s pretty sure Jihoon didn’t want crossed. But when he hears Jihoon move to get out of the tub, Woojin is there in an instant, welcoming his cold, wet, shaking hand into his own and promising himself he’ll never let Jihoon go again.

He tucks Jihoon into bed and resists the urge to kiss him on the cheek. When he’s back in his own room, he’s clenching his shirt above his heart and breathing hard against his thudding pulse. He isn’t a teenager anymore. He isn’t the same Woojin from high school. This time, he’ll do something with these feelings. He will do whatever it takes to win over Park Jihoon and take away his heartbreak once and for all.

 

Jihoon is completely fine after that night. He’s all smiles and laughs and teasing and joking. They make dinner together, go grocery shopping together. They watch TV together, go to bed at the same time, wake up at the same time, shuffle around the kitchen making breakfast at the same time. Every Friday night, they hang out with their friends together, mostly going to dinner, drinking. Sometimes Woojin has too much and Jihoon has to guide him home. Sometimes it’s Jihoon who drinks too much.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

When Jihoon’s drunk, he’s a little more affectionate, a little more comfortable being pressed up against Woojin in ways that Woojin usually only sees in his dreams. They’re walking back home with their fingers entwined and tipsy Jihoon has a flush and a smile on his face like he’s happy, content. Or at least Woojin is going to pretend that’s it.

“Why’d you let me drink so much?” Jihoon asks. He almost trips over his own feet, but he’s sober enough to use Woojin to catch his balance. “Fuck.”

“I was watching how much I was drinking because you didn’t watch me last time and I got shitfaced and it sucked ass.”

“Fair. That’s fair.”

“Fuck right it is.”

“One of these times we should both not drink too much. I can watch you and you can watch me?”

 _I already do_ , Woojin almost says. “Sure. We can give it a try. But what’re the chances we both fuck up and then we both come home drunker than fuck?”

“High. The chances are very high.” Jihoon giggles, leans more against Woojin.

Woojin hates how it makes his heart race. “Here.” Woojin replaces his hand with his other so he can wrap his arm around Jihoon. “Are you cold or something?”

“Yes. No. Yes.” Jihoon bows his head so Woojin can’t quite read his face. “Let’s drink more when we get back. Like just a beer or two. And watch a movie.”

“Sure. We are not watching _Pacific Rim_ again, though.”

“Heathen. Demon. Evil incarnate.”

“Keep going.” Woojin starts leading Jihoon down the stairs to the subway carefully. He doesn’t want to see Jihoon smash his head in here of all places.

“No, I’m pretty sure I summed you up with those three. I’m good.”

“Usually people go with sexy, handsome, babe.” They make it down in one piece, and so Woojin guides them toward the right train.

Jihoon snorts and starts rubbing his thumb along Woojin’s. “Who?”

“People, babe. People.”

“ _Who_?”

“ _People._ ”

“I will kill you. I know where you sleep.”

“You said it once, if I recall correctly.” Woojin finds an empty space and leans against the wall.

Jihoon leans against him more, wraps his arms around his waist. They’re  _hugging_  and Woojin’s brain is screaming at him. Jihoon looks up, and his face is so close Woojin would only have to bend over a bit to close the distance between their lips. Jihoon doesn’t seem to notice as he says, “Like seven years ago,” with alcohol on his breath. “Doesn’t count.”

“Oh, so you remember?” Woojin smirks. He dares a glance at Jihoon’s lips. Resisting them is hard. So fucking hard.

Especially when he smirks back. “No.”

“Fuck you.”

Jihoon tips his head back and laughs. His neck exposed, Woojin watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall and wonders what it’d be like to kiss it, to nuzzle into it. He doesn’t, of course. “You’re right,” he says, slapping Woojin’s arms. “I need to get laid soon. Oh shit, I said that kinda loud.” He giggles—a rarity that only happens when he’s just tipsy enough but not quite edging into drunk. “Oh, well. I guess Dispatch will have something to write about now.”

When the train comes, Woojin pulls Jihoon on and even finds him a seat. They get home eventually, and Jihoon goes straight to the fridge after taking off his shoes and takes out two beers. The funny thing is that Jihoon doesn’t even like the taste, but he must’ve been teased enough for his Isul Tok Tok preference that he grimaces now even when it’s mentioned.

“ _Queer Eye_?” Jihoon suggests, and it’s not one Woojin was anticipating. He sits down on the couch, putting the beers on the coffee table and grabbing a blanket.

“I’ve never seen it,” Woojin says. He settles next to Jihoon and grabs the remote. “Netflix?”

“It’s not _Pacific Rim_ , and that seemed to be your only rule. Yeah, Netflix.” Jihoon is closing the distance between them again, leaning against him again, making Woojin’s heart work too hard again. “Let’s just watch like two episodes max? And then I’ll let you carry me to sleep and tuck me into bed.”

Woojin finds the show easily enough on Jihoon’s Netflix account and starts on season one episode one. “Oh, does that mean I get to give you a goodnight kiss, too?”

“As if you’d get so lucky.”

But Woojin is shifting enough to put his arm around Jihoon again, and Jihoon is moving closer and a goodnight kiss doesn’t seem that far off. Woojin can’t concentrate on the show at all. All he thinks about his the way the light flickers across Jihoon’s features, how his eyelashes cast a shadow over his cheekbones, how his lips glisten just enough to be mesmerizing.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring when Jihoon finally looks up at him. He’s not sure if either of them are breathing as they study each other. One moment, Woojin is falling once again into the galactic depths of Jihoon’s eyes, falling in love once again with someone who deserves the entire universe and more. Then next he’s watching Jihoon pass his tongue of his bottom lip and wishing it were his tongue instead.

“Can I kiss you?” Woojin says without thinking. He leans closer until he can feel Jihoon release a breath against his lips. “Not a goodbye kiss. A real one.”

“Why?” Jihoon asks.

“Because I like you.”  _Because I’m in love with you and I have been since we were teenagers._  “Can I?”

Jihoon doesn’t answer him, but he angles his head just a little while keeping his eyes on Woojin’s. As if he’s waiting for Woojin’s gaze to tell him something he should already know. When their lips meet, their kiss is hesitant and slow even as their mouths open against each other. Warm lips and warm tongues. Woojin’s pulse jolts with every little brush of Jihoon’s tongue against his, the slick friction twisting all the way down into his gut. For a few moments, his entire existence is on the tip of his tongue responding to Jihoon’s as if maybe, just maybe this is Jihoon saying  _I like you, too_.

He wants more of this, more of Jihoon. So he moves closer still, as if they aren’t already close enough. He snakes his hands around his waist and hopes Jihoon can feel how much closer Woojin wants to be, how he holds him like he’s fragile yet unbreakable. Then Jihoon is laying back on the couch and Woojin is fitting his hips between his legs. Woojin can hardly catch his breath, especially when he’s trailing a searing line of kisses down Jihoon’s throat as he moans. How many nights has he dreamed of this? How many times has he wanted to show Jihoon exactly how he feels because the words always get stuck in his throat?

 _I love you_ , he writes with his tongue on Jihoon’s skin, over his collarbones and down his chest, along the healing scar above his heart. He’d never hurt Jihoon. He’d never break his heart. He’d love him so completely that Jihoon would forget what a broken heart even feels like. If only Jihoon loved him, too.

Jihoon pushes against him, gently like he’s unsure. “Sorry,” he whispers. As Woojin sits up, Jihoon moves off the couch. “Sorry. Goodnight.” Then he’s closing his bedroom door behind him and Woojin is left wondering if he imagined the whole thing.

But he knows he didn’t because Jihoon doesn’t act like nothing happened. There’s a distance between them now that Woojin remembers from the moment Jihoon answered the door for his roommate interview. A distance he’d been able to cross before, which means he will cross it again and again and again. How many ever times it takes for Woojin to say the words he needs to say for Jihoon to understand. He will not let Jihoon slip away from him again.

 

Woojin catches Jihoon mending his heart night after night. He wants to ask who’s hurting him, but he’s afraid of the answer. What Woojin does instead is rub circles into his back as he’s digging the knife into his chest, thread the needle for him as he’s cracking his ribs so he can fit his heart between the gap, grab clean clothes for him and set them on the toilet for when he’s done, and then carry him to bed.

Jihoon watches Woojin from under the covers as he cleans up his red mess in the bathroom. “Hey, Woojin.”

“Yes, babe?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

The next breath is hard to take in when he’s pretty sure he’s feeling the tear in his heart rip just a little more. “I guess I can go back to calling you demon.”

“Yes. Better. More accurate.”

Woojin stops himself from correcting him. There is no one who is more a babe than Park Jihoon, even when he’s covered in his own blood and looks so broken that Woojin’s scared he won’t ever be whole again. “Anything else, your royal demoness?”

Jihoon chuckles. “Thank you. I really need to thank you.”

“Say it to my face,” Woojin barks back _. And tell me who’s doing this to you so I can murder them and actually practice my body disposal skills?_  “In like two minutes. Almost done. And then I want to change.”

“Fine.”

Woojin makes quick work of the rest of his cleaning, then he basically jobs across the apartment and throws on a fresh pair of pajamas before making his way back to Jihoon’s room. He hesitates at the door. Maybe he shouldn’t intrude into his space again. But Jihoon is watching him from his bed, chewing on his lips like he wants to say something. Woojin decides to interpret it as follows: he walks over to Jihoon’s bed, flops onto it, then crawls beside Jihoon and slips under the covers next to him. Jihoon’s eyebrows are half-way up his forehead, his eyes are unbelievably wide and beautiful.

“Okay, I’m ready to hear it now,” Woojin says with a grin, resting his head on Jihoon’s pillow. “Say thank you, Woojin, for being the best roommate ever and being my best friend and cleaning up for me and always being there for me…”

Jihoon’s lip curls. “Wow, you want me to lie?”

“It’s the truth. I’m only ever honest.” Woojin slings an arm over Jihoon’s waist.

“I didn’t ask you to do all those things.”

“No, you didn’t. I wanted to do them.” Now Woojin hugs Jihoon close. “And I don’t need to hear you say thank you. I’d rather you forget about whoever it is breaking your heart because I’m here now. You have  _me_.” And Woojin would never ever let Jihoon hurt so much that he had to mend his heart in order to keep going.

Jihoon chuckles again but doesn’t pull away. “Yeah, yeah. Easier said than done. Are you sleeping here tonight?”

“Any objections?”

There’s a pause. A quick inhale and exhale that Woojin can’t interpret. He says, “Don’t steal my blankets. And really, thank you. For everything.”

“Got it, demon. You’re welcome and goodnight.” Woojin pulls him closer, buries his head into Jihoon’s neck. Then Jihoon, finally, wraps Woojin in his arms in return, and it just feels so fucking right. He imagines what it’d be like to fall asleep like this every night, what it’d be like to fall asleep in Jihoon’s warm embrace with his steady heartbeat against his ear. He imagines what it’d be like to say I love you after goodnight and have Jihoon say it back.

 

Woojin gets into the habit of welcoming Jihoon home every day with a hug, which he walks into with a smirk and an eye roll. Jihoon, however, gets into the habit of coming home later and later, sometimes not even coming home. He’s basically spending more time at Daniel’s or Seongwoo’s or Jinyoung’s or Donghan’s than at home with Woojin. Those are the days Woojin can feel the rip in his heart becoming a ravine. He ignores it, though. He chose this love and he’d choose it again if he could and he’s not giving up on it.

But one night, Jihoon comes home at three in the morning. Woojin hears the door open, hears him take his coat off, his jacket off. Something seems off, so he gets up at least to welcome him home. It only takes one look.

Woojin rushes over to him, takes his shaking hand, guides him to his bathroom. He’s seen Jihoon do this so many times now that he knows exactly where he keeps his sharpest knife and his sewing kit. He helps Jihoon into the bath tub without a word, slips off his turtleneck to expose his bare chest, lean muscles, taut skin.

“You’re not going to ask?” Jihoon says as Woojin puts the knife into his chest, follows the scar he’s pierced many times over. It goes in easy, much easier than when he’d cut himself.

Woojin keeps his focus on the task at hand. “No.”

“You don’t want to know who?”

He snaps the rib bone just above Jihoon’s heart and winces as he does, though Jihoon doesn’t. “I do,” he says, now reaching for the part of him he’s afraid is damaged beyond repair. “I really fucking do.”

“I’ll tell you,” Jihoon whispers.

Woojin’s eyes snap to Jihoon’s in this moment. He swallows hard, clenching his teeth together in anticipation. Then he takes Jihoon’s heart into his hands as he waits for Jihoon to finally let the name force its way up his throat, past his teeth. His heart is two slippery and hard to grasp and hot to the touch. This is a deep canyon of something more than heartbreak.Smelling metallic and jerking a stuttered rhythm, it’s two wine-colored severed halves barely connected by a fatty, white aorta. His capillary muscles stretch and reach upward like roots of white, shimmering flesh. He holds the halves with care, cups them in his palms.  

Jihoon’s hands hold Woojin’s now. “It’s you, Woojin. I like you. I’m in love with you. Helplessly. And I can’t have you doing this—treating me like this when it means nothing to you and everything to me. This has to be it. This has to be the last time you hurt me.”

The sting in Woojin’s eyes is almost unbearable. He doesn’t have the words because he’s choking all over them, choking over the realization that he’s the one who’s been breaking Jihoon’s heart despite everything he’s done to try to help him heal. So he gets into the tub in front of Jihoon with tear-blurred vision, sets his heart between them. He takes off his shirt. He picks up the knife again.

“No,” he says.

“Woojin,” Jihoon says in a sharp gasp, “what’re you—”

The blade goes in smooth into his own chest. His ribs remember their first breaking and yield to the pressure of his hands. Jihoon reaches across to him, maybe to stop him, but Woojin gently brushes his hands away so that he can take out his own broken heart for him to see. Finally, the words come.

“Jihoon, I love you.” He looks at Jihoon now, at his lost, confused, beautifully broken expression--eyes wet, cheeks flushed, lips quivering--as his throat closes against the sob clenching his chest. “I’m in love with  _you_. I have been since we were still in high school. I have been since I mended my heart after I moved to Los Angeles. I have been still all these years despite sewing my heart together again. Every day, I’ve fallen for you more and more. All I want to do is be with you and be here for you and. I won’t stop. Ever. You can’t make me. So please, take my heart, and let me have yours?”

Jihoon swallows loud enough for Woojin to hear, then he shifts his gaze to Woojin’s hollow chest. Woojin and Jihoon are empty mirrors of each other. Then Jihoon looks down at Woojin’s heart, he traces the line of heartbreak he’s caused. “You’re lying,” he says, voice quiet.

“Fuck off. You know I’m not. You know what my lies sound like, and this is not it. God, I’m so completely in love with you it’s stupid. I didn’t know if I should tell you because I knew you were heartbroken over someone, but don’t let it be me anymore. Please let me love you.”

“Did I do this?”

“You didn’t know,” Woojin says. “I didn’t know."

“We didn’t fucking say anything.”

“We’re sorta shit at that.”

Jihoon takes the knife, this time to properly sever the two barely connected halves of his heart.

“The fuck are you doing?” Woojin is frozen, watching as Jihoon picks up the right half, leans forward to take one of Woojin’s hands, and sets the half into his palm.

“What do you think I’m doing? You asked for my heart, so it’s yours now. I don’t know when I started loving you, and no matter how many times I do this shit, there you are again, being you and making me fall all over again. And it’s what I hate and love about you so fucking much.”

Woojin swallows. Then he takes the knife and makes a clean cut into his own heart, exaggerating the rip that’d only been growing since he first sewed it back together. Neither of them say a word as Woojin passes over half of his heart to Jihoon, too. Then they work quietly, struggling equally to thread needles with blood-slippery fingers, until they’ve placed their hearts back into their chests. Woojin resets Jihoon’s ribs back into a protect cave, and then Jihoon does the same to his. They stitch up each other’s chests at the same time, chuckling when they get in each other’s way.

When they finish, they both look up. Their eyes meet, and their hearts beat as one.

“Please don’t break it this time,” Jihoon says, but he’s smirking.

Woojin scoffs. “Same, demon, same.”

“You can call me babe now.” They might still be standing in the bathtub, wet from head to toe, but that doesn’t stop Jihoon from leaning against Woojin and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck that.” Woojin wraps his arms around Jihoon’s slim waist, rests his hands on his ass because he can. “You said what you said, and you’re now my love demoness forever.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

 

∞

**Author's Note:**

> better late than never i guess.......... feel free to bug me on [twt](http://twitter.com/slackeuse) or [cc](http://curiouscat.me/slackeuse) (it'll be open to anons for a few days), but as always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated <3


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